


i still shelter you (just making it up as i go along)

by jollypuppet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jollypuppet/pseuds/jollypuppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m going to have to live for thousands of years, you know that? I’m going to live to see this planet wiped out of the universe. And what have you got, seventy more years?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i still shelter you (just making it up as i go along)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, first thing I've posted up here. Hope you like it!  
> Title comes from Alex Clare's [Sanctuary.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T1K_Qi3sO5o)

Sam insists that there are certain elements to a romantic relationship that Dean just can’t grasp.

Of course, it’s not like Sam’s in much of a place to talk, or like he’s got a good perspective on the matter in the first place. Castiel will, mostly in name, always be closer to human than Gabriel ever will be — but the fact of the matter is that one is not human just because one cusses on occasion. Gabriel assimilated himself into human life for  _years_ , enjoyed the perks of being human (admittedly, though, none of the fallbacks) and so is, perhaps, more  _mentally_  human than Castiel can ever hope to be.

Not to downplay Dean’s relationship with Cas, though — Sam’s not that petty. He’s seen the way that the two of them look at one another, and how they hardly respect one another’s personal space, and the lingering contact and the  _staring_  and it’s just far too obvious that Dean never imagined he’d be so hopelessly in love with something so seemingly  _untouchable_.

But Sam’s got Gabriel, who’s almost more like Sam than Castiel is like Dean. He left his father behind to pursue his own desires, absorbed himself into the life he  _wanted_  to lead, then got pulled back into the inevitable mess called reality by his brother. He’s like a carbon copy of Sam almost — or Sam’s like a carbon copy of Gabriel, because, for one, Gabriel came first by a couple millennia, and two, Gabriel’s  _much more important_.

Sam’s acutely aware of the several millions of Muslims, Catholics, Lutherans, and the various followers of Orthodoxy all over the world who would  _love_  to affirm that to him.

He’s like Gabriel in all the ways that makes them close to one another, makes them empathize with and  _adore_  one another, really, but they’re different in ways that makes everything exciting.

Gabriel’s unpredictable and clever and horrendously funny and likes to throw them back a few hundred years to times like the Renaissance and the Enlightenment just so he can show Sam everything that’s  _beautiful_ about the world, but he’s terribly reserved and doesn’t trust easily, which Sam finds endearing to no end, fragile to a degree that he wants to cradle it and keep it safe.

Sam, on the other end, is soft-spoken, with a lot of power and emotion to back him up, and is sensible, practical, the center of intelligence in the hunting duo that is the Winchester brothers. He’d rather spend his time researching than doing field work, but he’s got this deep, white fire coiled up inside of him, chained together with iron and spitting like a wild bull. He’s invigoratingly primal at times, whether it’s a manner of after effect from Azazel’s toying with him as a child or just his  _personality_ , but whatever it is, it’s constantly stymied by that placid nature of his, rearing it’s head with wind and vigor and poised due-North for destruction.

It’s  _that_  kind of inner spirit, the part of Sam’s soul that pulses out for Gabriel’s Grace, that entices him. It reminds him of his days when he toyed with Russian peasant rebellions, and of when he tempted Bismarck to tamper with the Ems Telegram. It’s a challenge — and one that will reap a  _gorgeous_  reward in the end.

That’s why they’re so good for each other — and even describing it in that light seems unfitting. They’re not  _good_  for each other, they just  _fit_ , not like fate, not like some sort of cosmic intervention, but like God created the archangel Gabriel and said,  _Thousands of years down the line, you’ll meet Sam Winchester, and you’ll probably fall madly in love with him. Just as a forewarning_.  _Now run along, have some fun, lunch will be ready in an hour._

Except Sam knows that God was probably even more of a deadbeat dad than John was, so lunch was probably stale crackers and tap water.

But getting back to the point.

Even their  _bodies_  just fit together perfectly, which Gabriel constantly reminds Sam  _has_  to be a coincidence, because he chose his vessel incidentally and most certainly did  _not_  plan on meeting Sam Winchester and falling madly in love with him. But Gabriel can sometimes hear it, regardless — the way the edges of his mind wander to how they lock together, their lips, their chests, their waists, whether they’re just kissing or laying together or otherwise, and Gabriel’s found himself  _agreeing_ , at least a little bit.

The way he slots against Sam  _has_  to have been something planned, because his head tucks underneath the hunter’s chin, and his hands automatically fall to Sam’s hip where Gabriel  _knows_ Sam’s been branded by the archangel’s hand, and the broadness of Sam’s shoulders practically swallow Gabriel up at times, Sam’s hands locking with his and causing a tightness in his chest — something he’s pretty sure is normally associated with shortness of breath, but he wouldn’t know.

Gabriel jokes sometimes with Sam. Castiel’s already made it apparent to the elder Winchester that his true form is roughly the size of the Chrysler building, and when Sam brought it up again on one occasion, Gabriel had asked, in all seriousness, “Have you ever heard of the Burj Khalifa?”

The Burj Khalifa is five-sixths the size of Gabriel’s true form. And here Sammy is, Gabriel had said with a smirk, a measly six-foot-four.

Regardless, though, Gabriel has to admit that the only height he has anymore that  _matters_ is the height of his vessel, which is a full nine inches shorter than Sam’s towering build. And yes, perhaps part of him likes it when Sam practically shadows him, broad chest heaving and pupils swallowing his eyes.

Gabriel’s spent centuries being the bully on the playground, and he’s tired of it. He finally has someone who he can steal a jacket from and watch his hands get lost in the sleeves, someone who lifts him onto countertops and kisses him senseless, and it makes him feel warm and content and  _belonging_ , in a way. Sam finds it adorable, though he never says it (and tries not to think it, because, really,  _archangel_ ) and tries to keep it close to him as much as possible, making a conscious effort to wrap a strong arm around Gabriel’s waist sometimes, or calmly rub his arms, just because he can.

So, it’s really a sort of silent agreement between the two of them — something they never really talk about, not unless it’s whispered lovingly in the close, comforting dark of midnight, but it’s without a doubt  _there_  and has soaked and bled through their relationship so far that it’s wrapped around the both of them, one soul tied to one Grace, and has dug its hooks so deep into the both of them that it would rip either of them apart to let it go.

Therefore, they don’t. Why would they?

Dean and Cas have already stored themselves away into in their newest ratty motel, and Sam finds Gabriel standing not far from the hood of the Impala, arms crossed and watching cars as they speed by on the highway.

Sam almost doesn’t want to approach him — he looks like he’s deep in thought, or deep in  _remembering_ , really, which is odd for him. He’s normally chatty, bouncing around at high velocities until Sam has to slow him down with the promise of sex or  _something_ , but here he’s standing in the cold of November’s evening, Boston air pooling around him and rustling his hair slightly.

Somehow, Gabriel hasn’t noticed him, and Sam smiles to himself when the archangel points his finger and mocks a gun with his hand, pretending to shoot at the oncoming cars. Sam decides to move, of course, when one of the car’s headlights bursts.

He comes up behind the archangel and gently grips his arms, rubbing absently, and kisses the top of Gabriel’s head because he’s tall enough to do that and he  _can_. Gabriel crosses his arms again and Sam can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“Don’t tell me I’m gonna get scolded for that.”  
  
Sam grins a bit, moves his arms to wrap around Gabriel’s waist, and the archangel relaxes back into him, melding quite perfectly against his chest. “Maybe a slap on the wrist, at a later date. But I’ll admit, it was pretty funny.” He rests his head on top of Gabriel’s. “You cold?”  
  
“I’m an angel, kiddo, I don’t get cold.” Gabriel replies, and Sam grins, almost to himself. Gabriel’s already wearing one of Sam’s old jackets from his earlier years at Stanford, and his hands hardly poke out from underneath the cuffs, from where Sam can see them still crossed at his chest. It would be comical if he didn’t find it so charming.

“Any reason why you’re terrorizing random drivers?”

Gabriel shrugs. “I’m still part Trickster, you know. Thought it’d be fun.”

“Yeah, it won’t be fun when there are ambulances wailing all around this area later tonight.”  
  
Gabriel hums contemplatively. “Point taken.”

Sam slips his arms from around Gabriel’s waist, nudging at his hip gently to turn him around, and Gabriel’s face is questioning when he looks at him. Sam presses his forehead against Gabriel’s and raises his eyebrows as cue for him to continue, and Gabriel frowns a bit.

Then, suddenly, deadpan and nonchalant in a way that makes Sam’s heart clench, he says: “I’m going to have to live for thousands of years, you know that? I’m going to live to see this planet wiped out of the universe. And what have you got, seventy more years?”

Sam blinks, a sort of surprise settling heavy and  _gruesome_  in his stomach, and he really doesn’t know what to say. What are you  _supposed_  to say to that? It’s not an insecurity, it’s not a painful memory, it’s a  _fact_. It’s imminent, and it’s true, and suddenly it’s killing Sam.

So he kisses Gabriel — he kisses him hard, illuminated only from the weak neon lights glowing from the motel, and Gabriel lets himself be towered over, like he does when he’s most quiet,  _reeling_ , almost, lets himself be consumed by this  _human_ , of all people, and kisses back. It slows and relaxes after a few moments of breathing, and soon Sam is kissing him languidly, letting his tongue fully explore the archangel’s mouth, hand at the nape of his neck to still him.

And when he pulls away to breathe — Sam, not Gabriel, because Gabriel will live for thousands of years, remember — he looks Gabriel straight in the eye, firm and cold and  _unmoving_ , and says, “I’ve got as long as you’ll keep me.”

There it is, then. Sam Winchester, with his entire being etched in Enochian and Latin and Greek, all screaming out to the Heavens and the dogs of Hell that the archangel Gabriel, nomad of the Above, God of Mischief, angel-turned-hunter, owns him and wraps around him with angelic divinity so bright that God would shy away from it.

And Gabriel figures that’s a pretty fair trade off, for what it’s worth. Sam gets this body, this angel, this warrior of God, and Gabriel, in turn, gets a soul as bright as the sun, more valuable than all the treasures of the world.

He thinks it’s worth a thousand years after all.


End file.
